


Repayment

by JelliclePussycat



Category: The Flight Attendant (TV)
Genre: F/F, Light Choking, Light Spoiler for 1x08, Praise Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:15:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28202976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JelliclePussycat/pseuds/JelliclePussycat
Summary: “How would I ever repay you?”
Relationships: Miranda Croft / Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 68





	Repayment

**Author's Note:**

> Miranda Croft x reader on the flight to Rome (set during the last episode of season 1). I have no excuses.  
>  **Fair Warning** : probably the smuttiest thing I’ve ever written and I’m not even sorry.

REPAYMENT

Despite what everyone keeps telling you about how awful your job is, you really love it: being a flight attendant allows you to visit the world, meet people, and most of all, have the illusion of being on errands every day of the year. Sure, you don’t have an actual home, nor can you form a really stable relationship with anyone, but you don’t care much - you’re content that way.

Next stop: Rome. It’s not the first time you’ve been there and you’re eager to spend a couple of days in the Italian capital before going back to New York.

“Can I bring you anything else?” You flash a bright smile at the grumpy passenger in economy class that just made you change his drink twice - first, it was warm, and then he 'didn’t ask for ice in it' - and when you see him shake his head, dismissing you, you hardly contain a string of curses.

You calmly walk in the narrow aisle, glancing around, eager to find someone who might need your help, when you spot your coordinator calling you. She’s glaring, cocking her fingers to beckon you as if you’ve done something wrong (you know you haven’t - have you?).

You dislike her. She has never treated you kindly, but she’s your boss and you smile and nod as you approach her and enter the small room in the middle of the plane where the crew gathers.

“Y/N, you have to take over business and first.” She tells you with a snarl, clearly unimpressed.

You frown, folding your arms protectively.

“I’ve never done business and first.” You point out, matter-of-factly. “Why are you sending me there?” You imagine it’s not very different from economy class, but on the other hand, you know there are other protocols and rules you know little about. You're not trained yet for that part; what if you do something wrong? You can risk your job.

Your boss seems to enjoy your anxiety. It doesn’t surprise you.

“It’s a temporary promotion.” She replies, gesturing toward the curtain that leads directly into the part of the plane you haven’t been allowed yet. “Just do your job and take care of the passengers. With a smile.”

You hint that smile, which is more similar to a wince, but you can’t help it.

Bracing yourself, you step into the new section. It’s wider, more comfortable, and the passengers are all smartly dressed, either writing on their laptop or napping - everything is quiet here and your colleagues seem relaxed and genuinely eager to help. Sure you imagine there is some pain-in-the-ass passenger somewhere, but you can’t spot him (or her) for now.

You walk around for a moment, glancing around to take the clients in: they’re not too many and they all seem satisfied (no one is calling or raising their hands). You decided to take a look in first class as well and there it’s even quieter: the six mini apartments are all vacant except for one. You smile to yourself, imagining this will be the best experience of your career… certainly one to remember.

Overall content by your new position, you go back to business and serve a few drinks, give a pillow to another passenger and a blanket to a woman dressed like she’s going to the beach - you mentally roll your eyes, but of course act professionally - and then you’re planning on sitting down for a five minutes break when your eyes drop on a woman, head tilted to the side, napping, smartly dressed, and with an alarming red spot above her knee, soiling her pants.

Is it just you? Why hasn’t one noticed that and done anything about it?

You look around frantically as if to ask for help, but you can’t startle the passenger by yelling if there’s a doctor around, your colleagues are busy and the woman seems surprisingly unbothered. You, on the other hand, are not.

“Ma’am, your leg is bleeding.” You state, feeling dumb as the words leave your mouth.

You watch her getting a small intake of air, straightening her head, then cracking one eye open. And it’s blue, the bluest you’ve ever seen - a great contrast with her dark hair and the perfect addition to her sharp features.

“I’m aware of that.” She mutters and then a smile creeps on her thin lips.

You bite your lip to prevent wondering something even dumber like if she’s hurting, because clearly she is, and just stare down at her, your brain galloping wild on the best thing you can do. _Take care of the passengers_ , your boss told you and you will do just that, in the best possible way.

“Can you walk?” You ask then, still worrying at your lip.

The woman cocks her head to the side, and she’s eyeing you curiously, a small frown wrinkling her brow.

“Why would I walk?” She asks back, but you see her hands already fidgeting with her buckle, unhooking it and letting each end sliding off her hip bones.

“Follow me, please.” You offer, managing to sound professional and polite. You watch her carefully standing up and stumbling on her feet, hands gripping the headrest of the seat for support. You would offer help, but you don’t want to overstep: surely she would ask for it in case she needs it.

Throwing one last glance to her, you lead her down the aisle and into a small corridor, leading her to first-class and into the furthest booth.

“I thought you might be more comfortable here.” You clear your throat as you show the small but well-equipped room (your company makes pay a fortune for those and they have all the comforts). “So you can put your legs up?” It’s not something completely unethical: couples who just got married get moved to first-class all the time, so why not move someone who needs tranquility from business to first? It’s not you having favoritism, it’s just you taking good care of a passenger in extreme need of somewhere comfortable to lay down.

“Aren’t you a darlin’?” She croons, and for the first time, you finally get the Scottish inflection in her voice.

You watch her enter the small apartment, glancing around at the long couch, the tv on the wall, the small cabinet with the liquors, and the luxuriously padded armchair next to the window. She walks there, limping a bit, and then lets herself drop on it with a grunt.

You know you should leave and let her be, but you stay there, staring, eyes locked on the subtle movements of her fingers on the keypad, triggering the mechanism that transforms the armchair into a chaise longue, and then you’re back on her face, and you feel good with yourself when you see her smiling in relief.

And then you feel a tingle, the voice of your best friend in your ear saying you have the savior complex and you laughing about it... but maybe that is not far from the truth: because you want to take care of that woman and not because it’s your job, but because you want to help her and ease her discomfort.

“May I see the wound? I took a first aid course, maybe I can help?”

The woman watches you, bares her teeth into a strange smirk, then lays her head back, sinking comfortably into the armchair.

“Be my guest.”

You enter the space and let the automatic door slide close behind you, disappearing for a moment into the private bathroom, you turn around and go straight for the first aid kit and grab a towel, then go back where the woman is, and crouch down beside her, your eyes immediately inspecting at the dark spot on the side of her leg. It looks like she’s been shot if you have to be honest, but you can’t be sure of that.

You lift your gaze and almost let out a gasp when you see blue eyes staring back at you.

“I need to-” You stammer, mentally slapping yourself because you’re actually suggesting a passenger remove her pants. Even if it’s a necessity (given the circumstances) it feels wrong. Extremely wrong.

The woman lets out a chuckle and unbuckles her pants with deft fingers, hooking her thumbs into the band almost hasty, and raises her hips from the chair, wincing as she puts weight on her leg. Without thinking too much about it, you help her slide off her pants, grouping them at her ankles by her boots. You easily remove those and the pants too, folding them neatly and putting them on the couch.

You swallow at the surreal situation and push the appreciation for the firm muscles bulging under her taut skin (which are a pleasant surprise on a such petit woman) to the back of your head.

The wound is small but deep and it definitely looks like a bullet hit her flesh, yet luckily whatever object had caused that, is not still in her body. You don’t want to ask about it, but you also want to keep her distracted.

“What is your business in Rome?” You inquire as you start working with a clean towel around the gush, wiping the dried blood.

The woman heaves a sigh.

“I have to protect a friend from being killed.” She replies nonchalantly.

Your head bobs up.

“Like a bodyguard?” You sound dumb again, naive almost. You hate it, but she seems amused by it, so the embarrassment it’s quickly forgotten.

“Not exactly.” She smirks.

You stare at her for a moment, silently wondering what she means by that because the implications are endless: is she police? Military? Any of those would explain the wound... and yet not (because why would she limping around on a plane to Rome with a bleeding leg if she was any of those things?); is she a hitman or something?

You clear your throat and dab disinfectant on her skin, wincing in sympathy when you hear her hiss and you follow the instinctive jerking of her leg when you apply some more pressure. When you deem it clean enough, you retrieve a bandage and wrap her leg tightly.

“I think you need stitches.” You comment, putting everything back into the box.

“I’ll be fine, darlin’, thank you.” She assures you and you feel her gaze on your body when you stand up and disappear into the small bathroom to put the kit away.

When you go back, you were expecting for her to have retrieved the blanket and covered herself, but she hasn’t, and she’s laying there, in her black cotton panties peeking from under her blouse, legs bare, staring at you. You feel your heart thumping, you want to ask if she needs anything before leaving, but instead, you just stand there, unable to move, waiting for her to formulate her request.

She bites her lip, sucking the right corner into her mouth as her gaze roams on your body.

“How would I ever repay you?” She says, and it’s a purr, low and charming, that tugs at something in your stomach. That woman is magnetic, you feel drawn to her and you don’t even understand why.

You’re a flight attendant, but fucking in the bathroom with a passenger, it’s stuff for movies. You never thought it was possible to even find one of them attractive. Not that it matters anyway because it’s unprofessional and wrong and everything tells you to just run away and go back to doing your job, but your body doesn’t move and you want to (desperately so) find out what that stranger’s reward for you might be.

Your feet move by their own accord as you walk to her, those blue eyes beckoning you like a siren song to your doom.

“How would you repay me?” You ask, echoing her words, your voice is low.

She studies you, a grin creeping on her lips, then her hands slide from the armrests to her thigh, patting lightly.

“I think you can guess what I have in mind.” She replies calmly.

You do, of course. Do you want that? Yes. You should indulge her and your desires? No.  
But you close the distance between the two of you anyway and you gasp when she quickly jerks off the chair - and she’s agile, like a snake - and grabs your wrist, tugging you to her.

You stumble, eyeing her thighs nervously when she lays back down.

“Your leg-” You murmur.

“Don’t worry about it.” She croons, and the next thing you know, you’re sitting on her lap, your legs dangling on one side of her. “Kiss me.” She commands through a smirk.

You blink dumbstruck, but you lean into her, latching at her mouth eagerly. When her tongue nudges at your lips, you grant her passage, sucking on her lip and tongue, exploring her mouth, drowning in the addicting taste of her. She's greedy and primordial, in the way she kisses you.

You feel her other hand snaking on the small of your back, pulling you closer and you switch off your brain, for a moment, because this is incredibly wrong, but at the same time, it feels incredibly good.

Carefully, though your head is wrapped in a delicious mist, you try to move above her, working on the hem of your pencil skirt to lift it to your waist and, finally, straddle her, eager to feel the heat radiating from her body to your core. You were happy when you found out you could forego tights with your summer uniform, but now you’re beyond grateful.

Pinning her down to the armchair, pressing your knees on either side of her waist, you keep kissing her hungrily, chasing her tongue for dominance.

“I never thought this flight would be this entertaining.” She comments when you part, and you can feel her hot breath crushing on your wet lips.

You let out a chuckle, bowing your head until your chin touches your chest. Wrong; yet how can something so wrong be so thrilling?

“We shouldn’t.” You state, and you feel her fingers curling under your chin, pushing your head up.

“We shouldn’t.” She confirms.

You would reply, or lift yourself from her lap and pretend this never happened, but you still, locking her gaze into those cold eyes when you feel her hand snaking up the inside of your thigh. And she stares at you when she cups your cunt in her hand through your panties, and you blush, because you’re vaguely aware of the arousal that has most certainly dampened the cotton.

She strokes you with deliberately slow movements, mouth falling open as she looks intently at your face, eager to catch any change.

Your breathing becomes shallower, quicker, and you immediately bite down your lip when a whimper begins to build in the back of your throat.

“Oh, don’t do that, darlin’.” She tuts, and the fingers holding your chin become a whole hand wrapping around your neck. “I want to hear you.” Her squeeze is gentle, but definitely there, making you conscious of your neck pressing against her palm every time you gulp down.

When she pushes the cotton of your panties aside and her pads begin to stroke directly on your slick folds, you let out an unintentional moan, and it’s louder than you expected (you’re glad those first-class boots are soundproof).

She gives you a delighted smirk, thumb running on the column of your neck almost soothingly.

Your eyes flutter close when you feel her draw circles on your clit, and then she probes down the slit, wantonly dispensing attention as she pleases, teasing you, your heart tightening every time you hear the wet sounds of you while she strokes and nudges at your entrance, eliciting pitiful moans from you.

“Please-” You beg, the words dying when you realize you’re letting a stranger take you - you’re letting an actual nameless stranger fuck you while on duty.

She seems to read your mind, but instead of saying her name, she grins at you, utterly amused.

You open your mouth to speak again, but the wind gets knocked out of you when her finger slides effortlessly inside you.

“Beg again.” She breathes against your mouth, and then hold on your throat tightens a little.

“Please.” You say again, almost obediently, and your eyes flutter shut when she adds another finger, curling expertly into you, probing at your twitching walls.

You feel deliciously tight around her, so when she adds a third finger, you snap your eyes open, though it settles comfortably inside you.  
You’ve always failed to fit that much into you, always find it too tight, but now, it only feels good.

She lets you get used to the fullness, clearly sensing your surprise, and then begins to move in and out of you, slowly at first, and when you meet her movement with a tentative rocking of your hips, she quickens the pace, and you can do nothing but moan, gripping her shoulders for stability, and you groan when you feel her push deeper until she’s buried into your folds up to her knuckles.

And then she stills, only wiggling her fingers so you’re not left without stimulation, and you feel arousal pooling at your lower belly, trailing down the inside of your thighs, surely coaxing her hand.

You swallow, unable to stop grinding against her, and you gaze at her, at the glimmer in her eyes, at the white teeth scraping at her bottom lip, almost shily.

“Can you take one more?” She purrs, and the hand around your neck drops, fingers ghosting on the front of your uniform, gently palming at your breast.

You look down at her nervously. You feel impossibly tight around her fingers already, and then the need to reach your release is clouding your mind. You need to answer quickly.

“I don’t know.” You mutter, shaking your head in tiny movements, “I’ve never-”

She shushes you promptly.

“I think you can.” She croons, scissoring her fingers to stretch you further from the inside.

You grip at her shoulders and brace yourself for the intrusion when you feel her carefully ease out of you, just to go back in - fore, middle, ring finger, and her pinky too.

It’s tight and slightly uncomfortable, and you wince when she pushes further, steadily, until her four fingers are buried deep in your cunt. She moves slowly, letting you adjust again, and then she’s easing in and out, gently fucking you, but the fullness is clouding your judgment and your mind is deliciously blank. You’re panting now, hips desperately chasing her, silently begging her to be kind enough to bestow the forceful orgasm she’s promising.

“I would love to slide my thumb in and wear you like a glove, but I don’t want to ruin you too bad.” Those words alone threaten to make you teeter over the edge.

Her breath crushes against the shell of your ear when she leans into you, bringing your bodies impossibly close.

You’re positive you’re dripping in your lap by now, but you can’t bring yourself to care, too focused on your body drawing her fingers in as if you could never have enough of that. You’re aware you’re a moaning mess when you feel her chuckling against your neck, the nose tickling your pulse point, her teeth scraping at your skin, and you’re vaguely aware she’s being careful to not leave a mark on you, so you don’t get into trouble later.

“Let go.” She purrs, the tip of her tongue lapping at your ear.

You squeeze your eyes shut, the tightness in your lower belly building almost painfully now. You want to obey, but you just can’t.

“Are you waiting for my permission like the good girl you are?" She whispers, teeth closing on the underside of your jaw, still gentle, still careful.

You nod eagerly, beyond formulating words.

“Come for me, darlin’.” She commands, and she angles her arm so that the heel of her hand is hitting mercilessly on your swollen clit.

You moan, the first brush against your neglected bud almost too much, too painful, bringing you over the edge of overstimulation, but then she keeps going, and the pain triggers another gush of arousal to flow down your folds into her hand. You feel your muscles clench, the knot behind your navel gathering momentum.

The climax blasts from within you, the heat crawling from your core to your limbs as your inner muscles squeeze impossibly tight around her fingers, waltzing on the thin line between pleasure and pain.

Her fingers are deft, playing you like an instrument as she helps you ride the orgasm, and you’re not even sure if it bleeds into a second one, or if it’s so strong and long that the aftermaths run like shocks through your veins, making your muscles ache and your clit twitch almost unpleasantly against her palm.

You feel entirely spent when your eyes snap open, breath still labored and you let out a wet chuckle when you realize she’s staring intensely at you, and probably has watched you coming undone by her hand without taking her eyes off of you.

She’s incredibly delicate when she leans into you, collecting the trail of your moans in her mouth, and kisses you, fingers still deep inside your body. When she tries to withdraw, you feel an unfamiliar tug behind your navel and a mild panic overcomes you, making you clench your muscles, moaning in discomfort into her mouth.

She tuts, the hand on your chest sliding to your jaw, thumb rubbing soothingly at your cheekbone.

“Relax,” She coaches, “push against my fingers.”

You swallow, grounding yourself by clawing at her shoulders, her voice working like a balm, wiping the anxiety away. You do as you’re told, you push, and she pulls out slowly, and you release the breath you were holding, gazing at her when she leans back into the chair, and her hand snakes out from between your thighs and she keeps it closed in a fist, the evidence of your arousal shining on her knuckles.

You feel yourself blushing, but you can’t take your eyes away when she draws her hand to her lips, and sucks on each finger greedily, one by one, her blue eyes never leaving yours as she does that. She gives a content hum when she releases her forefinger last with a wet pop.

“Complimentary snacks have never been so delicious.”

Despite the situation, despite feeling utterly dirty, and embarrassed, you let out a wet chuckle, burying your face behind your hands.

“This was... surreal.” You comment, your voice comes muffled behind your palms.

“Terribly exciting might be the closest definition, darlin’.” She rebukes, tugging at your wrists, and before you can reply, you feel her lips crushing on yours again, and this time it’s not a hurried kiss, but a slow one, and you can’t help but notice that tastes like a goodbye.

“Terribly exciting.” You agree at last and reluctantly climb off her lap, smoothing your skirt down, biting your lip when your eyes drop on the darker patch on her black panties, where you’ve been sitting (was it yours or hers?).

“Do you need a clean towel?” You ask, turning your head to the bathroom so you can peer at your reflection on the mirror to fix your smudged lipstick.

She doesn't answer immediately, so you turn back again and watch her.

The woman tilts her head to the side, draws her hand to her lips, bites on the tip of her middle finger, and keeps it there close to her face.

“Why? I’ll let your scent lull me to sleep.”

Your heart is thumping madly in your chest when you press the button to open the door. You try to take her in her sharp features, the softness of her hair, the blue of her eyes, the sound of her voice, and the taste of her mouth.

“Ring if you need anything.” You say automatically. “I’ll come right to you.”

You go back to your duties, walking uncomfortably as you try to ignore the slickness between your thighs, and after an hour you’re eager to check on her, but your boss calls you back. She orders you to complete your shift in economy class and you have nothing else to do but obey.

The plane lands in Rome, you stand side by side with the rest of the crew and thank the travelers with the usual fake smile. You wait for her to disembark, but you don’t see her… yes, you came a little late, some passengers had already left when you got there, but surely… with her leg… and business and first class were usually the last to leave.

You make quick excuses and march to the first class.  
The person in the first booth is not there (surely he got off already) and panic starts to rise in your throat.

When you reach the last one, your heart drops when you see it’s empty.

On the armchair, however, you find a napkin:

> _Thank you for taking such good care of me, I’ll make sure to embark on your next flight… you still owe me a glove._
> 
> _x M_

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to share this on your socials... I don't have any. Tnx to whoever leaves a comment!


End file.
